Drabble A Day
by Phoenixflames12
Summary: A selection of unrelated Les Miserables drabbles taken from an ongoing writing challenge! Much love and enjoy x
1. Do You Hear The People Sing?

_**A/N: An unknown insurgent on the barricade of June 1832 remembers the sacrifice of those whose dreams had built it.**_

 ** _As I am not male, French or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Victor Hugo's epic novel into something cohesive, please don't sue me!_**

 ** _Oneshot_**

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Love, thine is the future

The darkness of the barricade haunts his dreams.

The shadows of the great mass of humanity rising up to meet the tattered tricolour flag that still fluttered faintly within the bloody remnants of those dreadful June days.

The shadows of the men that he had fought alongside; passionate, righteous men whom he had hardly known and now would never know, caught up as he had been in the spur of the moment on the Rue St Michel when the mass of students, of workers, flashes of humanity all brought together in a seething mass of humanity desperate for change.

In the darkness of his dreams he sees the silhouette of a stranger; a stranger with an almost god-like presence, radiating hope and light and life rising far above the barricade, clutching the tattered remains of a scarlet flag.

He sees ice blue eyes blazing with anger; glaring down at a prisoner whose crime he does not know; the ringing weight of a loaded carbine heavy in the sudden silence.

He sees a God, an Antinous incarnate, his voice ringing with cold, clear composure across the silent streets; hearing, without really understanding what he's hearing or why he's hearing it; the sudden crack of emotion, the rage turning to pain, turning to fear for those he has lead to their untimely deaths.

Sees the slightest tremor of the marble fingers as the carbine is cocked, the minutes seeming to stretch on forever.

' _You have one minute. Pray or ponder'._

Even now he can feel the cunning edge of death drifting into his bones. Can feel the bite of the fever that has plagued him for so long drifting slowly back into his consciousness.

Even now he can see the flicker of anguish flashing across the marble mask that has remained impassive for so long, see the sudden reaching for the hand of another. The hand belonged to a medical student, he remembers now; a softly spoken, bespectacled revolutionary, whose fire burnt no less brightly as soft, oak brown eyes saying what words could not; a silent cry across a sleeping city that would soon wake to the slaughter of so many of her finest men.

' _We will share thy fate'._

And share it they would; share it as pain that was not experienced alone. Pain that was made bearable by the thought that by some slight chance, their sacrifice would go on to mean something.

An imperceptible shiver cuts through him at that; at the cold, clear gaze that would have brought lesser men than the National Guardsmen who had cornered the last two standing in the upper room of the Musain; to their knees. A gaze that had blazed from a mask stained scarlet with the blood of so much injustice.

' _Shoot me'._

A powder trail of eight bullets, he was told later, by the chief of police; words that had been spat against his cell wall as he slipped in and out of consciousness; silently wishing that this could be his end.

 _No more. Not for their sakes. Please. No more._

Eight bullets to symbolise the inner circle of men that he had hardly known and yet in those dark and desperate hours had felt as if he had come to know them as intimately as he did his own family

His final thoughts before he succumbs at last to sleep is the image of eight men rising out of the ashes of their battered, bleeding city.

A band of brothers bathed in the hesitant light of a golden dawn that is slowly creeping up from the depths of the horizon, bringing with it the prospect of a new life, a new life that is filled with the hope that those young men whose passion seemed to radiate off them like fire would one day see their dreams realised and their cause that has germinated and grown until it has encompassed the whole of Paris, fulfilled.

Somewhere in the crevices of his fever broken brain, he thinks that he hears a voice that he doesn't recognise; a voice that is brimming over with hope for a future that it would never live to see.

 _Love, thine is the future._

 ** _Fin_**

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 ** _A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!_**

 ** _Much love and enjoy x_**


	2. Dance With Me Darling

_**A/N: Courfeyrac loses a girl at a Christmas Ball and finds many other entertainments along the way.**_

 _ **As I am not Male, French, or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Victor Hugo's novel into something cohesive-please don't sue me!**_

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63\. Glance (Les Miserables)

A glance is all it took.

A glance is all it took and yet there was so much more to her; that just one glance was not nearly enough. He needed to find her and yet that was almost impossible with the crush of the dances, dipping and sliding through the sea of steps.

He barely notices the turn, the spin; the weight of his partners' hand clasped in his, although he knows that he really should be paying full attention to her and not trying to find a lost flash of a girl whom he isn't really sure is there at all.

'Do you like dancing, M. de Courfeyrac?'

 _That dreaded participle again!_

 _What had possessed him to introduce himself to this darling bud of May, this barely pricked Persephone of unmatched beauty with the weight of his fathers' name that he has spent so long trying to free himself from?_

His partners' attempts at conversation are light; flirtatious undertones flickering through her soft grey eyes fluttering up from long, dark lashes.

He knows why she's doing it, why she's even here and yet as he ponders his answer, carefully guiding through a penultimate spin and trying in vain to scan the ballroom for the flicker of a moss green velvet sash, for the flutter of an auburn ringlet which would reassure him that she was still there.

The candles seem to blur as they waltz the final steps and he can feel her eyes on him, her gaze suddenly dark with annoyance. She was the youngest daughter of one of his more liberal professors and right now, not used to being ignored.

'Do I like dancing Mamoiselle?' He smiles at her, bowing low as they dip towards their next partners; shifting his hand on her waist; fingers rippling against through silk-lined satin down to the whalebone of her corset to reassure her that he will answer her question, however, mundane she might find the answer.

Across the room, he can see a very uncomfortable Marius Pontmercy blushing furiously into his glass of claret as he tried to make conversation with a very concerned looking Joly, who was no doubt expecting the sheen of sweat that was beading itself against the younger mans' forehead to manifest itself into inexplicable symptoms at any moment.

But does he like dancing?

He likes the act of dancing, he concedes, eyes flickering across the room to see if he can spot the elusive girl that has escaped him for so long; but had never quite understood the emphasis that had been put on the endless hours of instruction complete with a shy, tongue-tied partner who had spent most of the lesson fascinated with a loose scrap of lace on her dress than him or the dance itself.

He does enjoy the social side of dancing, though; enjoys the candlelit smiles and laughter that rings across the ballroom, the twinkle of glasses, the soft hum of conversation; the swell of the orchestra which made balls the perfect opportunity to slip into a dark corner and discuss the upcoming revolution with potential sympathisers.

He enjoys flashing a winning smile to the watchful eyes of the mothers and aunts who crowded around the floor; hiding their hopeful faces behind their ostrich feather fans and bending his lips to the knuckles of his partner, telling her in a smiling undertone that they needn't be so suspicious of his intentions- it wasn't as if he; a Law student who was known throughout the drawing rooms of the Parisian elite as a _'revolutionary ';_ the word muttered in a scandaled undertone _,_ would be a suitable marriage prospect for their precious offspring.

All too soon, or not soon enough, the orchestra finally brings the dancers into a flourish of final bows and courtesy's and with a soft brush to his partners fingers; he is able to rescue the blushing booby Pontmercy and find the elusive girl who had captured his thoughts so entirely.

'Thank heavens', the poor boy garbled as Courfeyrac gladly accepted a glass of claret from a passing waiter and led him to the door into the drawing room. 'How do you do it, Valentin? All… All the talking… I don't understand, I really don't.' He looked so amusedly bemused that Courfeyrac cannot help but feel a smile teasing at his lips.

'My dear _Baron_ , it is simply a matter of practice. You must simply watch and learn'.

Marius huffs a little at that, fiddling with his glass and Courfeyrac's smile simply grows, wondering what on earth Joly of all creatures could have told him to make him so flustered.

'I speak only in jest my dear', Courfeyrac throws an amicable arm around Marius's shoulders and proceeds to steer him towards the door.

'Do you?' Marius's dark eyes as are wide as those of a startled fawn, but Courfeyrac hardly notices, his gaze flickering over all the faces of the charming young debutantes, trying to decipher whether _she_ was among them.

So distracted is he in his quest to find her, that he barely recognizes Combeferre and only half remembers his manners in greeting the guide who is escorting a young girl who shares the same quiet, dark manner that is sparked with an energy that only the very best knew how to prise out of the usually reserved philosopher turned medical student.

The pair turn a corner and are met by a sea of expectant faces of young women waiting for a partner to take them into the next dance. Beside him, Courfeyrac feels Marius stiffen and try to back away; the hand gripped firmly around his upper arm suddenly slick with sweat.

'Will you be joining us M'suir?' A blonde girl with bright, dove grey eyes and a fragile beauty that Courfeyrac would have enjoyed if he were not so otherwise engaged, asks and steps forwards; dimpling prettily as she curtseys to the pair.

Marius shoots him a panicked glance and Courfeyrac prods him forward.

'Alas not, M'moiselle, I am otherwise engaged,' the sorrow in his voice is only half genuine; but he hopes that this butterfly beauty may be so taken with the prospect of having a _Baron;_ even a poor one, on her arm; that she doesn't notice.

The company wilts with annoyance at that, but he continues, 'however, may I have the privilege of presenting the honourable _Baron_ Marius Pontmercy to your most distinguished company?'

Knowing his cue and with a quick dig to the ribs, Marius manages a rather stiff bow and bowing himself, Courfeyrac takes his leave; sending a silent prayer to whoever might be listening to watch over his protégée with the gaggle of excitable girl; all desperate to find a suitably wealthy husband.

Weaving his way back through the drawing room, Courfeyrac scans the dance floors and finds nothing; not even a hint of her. On his travels he passes a slightly intoxicated Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire who were trying to persuade Joly, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, into a game of whist; which if Courfeyrac knew the duo at all, would either end in tears or the three of them being thrown out into the cold with a severe dose of reprimands.

'I saw a girl… A girl for you de Courfeyrac!' Bahorel grins at him, his voice slurred with drink and barely misses upsetting his wine glass.

Silently grimacing at the use of the dreaded participle, Courfeyrac nods in interest.

'She… She's gone… Her Father's a Count… Well-to-do…Thought tonight… too rowdy for such a prec… precious flower…'

 _Oh Bahorel._

Desperately trying to swallow back his disappointment, Courfeyrac leaves them and makes his way towards the entrance; hoping that a spell in the icy winter air would medicine enough to clear his head.

He would find her he told himself, accepting a cloak from one of the valets waiting in the hallway for guests potentially wanting a post-dance stroll in the gardens.

He would find her and if it were to only to be a glance; a glance would, at least, cure his satisfaction until the Fates believed it was time for them to meet again.

 _ **Fin**_

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 ** _Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!_**

 ** _Much love and enjoy x_**


	3. Death Of An Angel

**_A/N: A continuation of my oneshot 'In The Ocean Washing My Name Off Your Throat'. It's not necessary to have read that one first, but I'd highly recommend it._**

 ** _As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Victor Hugo's epic novel into something cohesive- please don't sue me!_**

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16\. Blood (Les Miserables)

 _There had been so much blood._

Blood blooming over a sweatshirt that was staining a slow, sickening scarlet.

Blood that seemed to appear from nowhere, dribbling down ice blue lips; the weight of the drenched halo feeling suddenly weightless over his palm as the minutes ticked on.

' _Hold on',_ he had heard himself whisper, hearing the unbearable crack in his voice before he can stop it echoing through the silent, rain-soaked night.

' _Hold on Enjolras. Please. Please Mon Petit.'_

He remembers the weight of Enjolras's hands scrabbling at his own, the fingers slick with sweat and dirt; the eyes he knew so well dilated with the purity of the pain.

Remembers…

 _Don't think about that._

The voice sounds like Courfeyrac, could very well be Courfeyrac perched on the bed beside him as he had so often done in the first nights after the accident. Those were nights that never seemed to end nights that were filled with memories, images played in painful slow motion of the walk, the gang, the insults, taunts, Enjolras's anger seemed to coil like fire, reaching higher and higher until he sprung forward; the marble man turned red devil across the shadows of the alleyway.

A flash of metal; a knife-point glimmering just in his line of vision, the action so sudden that he almost missed it.

'Enjolras! _Enjolras, get away!'_

The crunch of knuckle meeting skin as a fist made contact and then…

And then the scream. That scream; that sudden, bestial scream that had torn through him as if he were nothing more than cloth himself.

He can't remember what happened after that. Can't remember how he had managed to evade the boy who had been told to hold him, the bite of a knife held with ruthless fingers to his throat.

Can't remember those seconds, those desperate minutes in which the part of his brain that was still in the medic's library went into overdrive.

' _Four minutes. That's all the time that you have before the patient's circulation will be cut off.'_

Can't remember the run towards Enjolras, or how he had managed to remove his jacket in the process, the weight of the water seeping into his jeans as he guided his best friend's head into his lap.

' _Hold on. Please Enjolras. Please hold on. I need you… We… We need you. Please don't go…'_

And yet, even now, he can still see the glassy eyes dilated with pain flickering up at him; hazy with a pain that was cutting into both of them, refusing to let either go.

The weight of his best friend's hand growing steadily limper, crawling across the lifeblood that was streaked across his palm as Enjolras struggled for breath, tears trembling across his lashes.

' _999? Yes… Yes… My name's Henri Combeferre and… there's… there's been an accident… Yes… Please… Please hurry!'_

And Enjolras' fingers weakly tugging at him, his mouth desperately trying to form words that at first, words that had been lost within a sudden burst of blood.

' _I can't lose you. I won't… I won't lose you.'_

The words had come so naturally to his frozen lips that he hardly heard them; is surprised that he even remembers them.

A slight squeeze on his fingers, the cerulean blue eyes flickering with the prospect of a death too soon, of a life that had had so much more to live for.

' _It's… It's… not your fault… 'Ferre…'_

The weight of the hand slowly slipping from his own, to be replaced by another that he didn't recognize, the voice that he had loved with all his heart to be replaced by another he can't remember ever hearing.

'Come back… Come back Mon Petit. Please come back…'

He can't come back. Even in this darkness that he knows is reality, he can't come back.

The weight of the hand on his shoulder tightens, trying desperately to pull him back into the present, but still he finds it impossible.

'It's all right Combeferre. I promise it's all right. Please come back.'

He doesn't want to come back.

He can't, not when the man whom he had loved; loved as a friend, as a brother above all things cannot come back and yet still he remains.

Still he remains living a life that was not meant for him to live, still he remains living, breathing, bound to the knowledge that it was all his fault.

'It wasn't your fault Combeferre.'

 _Oh, if only Courfeyrac knew! If only he could possibly understand how much it was his fault, his fault for taking the route through the alley instead of doing the right thing, the sensible thing, being the level-headed guide that his friends expect of him, that he expects of himself and calling a taxi to take them straight to the flat, if only…_

His chest heaves again, his eyes stinging with tears that cannot be shed.

The hand on his back moves closer, caressing his shoulder blades and yet he feels nothing.

Sees nothing.

Knows nothing.

 _Oh God._

 _Oh God._

 _Oh, Enjolras!_

'Combeferre, please!'

Through the darkness he hears Courfeyrac's voice break, words spilling over tears that in turn spill over him and yet still he hears nothing.

'Go to bed Courfeyrac.'

The words are muffled in the darkness, so low and quiet that he hardly speaks them at all.

He knows that he won't agree.

Knows that the beat of silence that passes between them, that has passed between them ever since they all returned from A cold and shaking with a realisation that none of them wanted to make a reality will stretch on forever, will continue to stretch on until one of them finally breaks and puts an end to all this.

'I can't.'

If it were any other situation, he would have smiled at the centre.

In any other situation, the hand on his shoulder would be waiting to hold him, to embrace him, to try and soothe out all the hurts as it always did.

But this situation is not like any of the other situations.

This situation has left their oldest, closest friend; the bringer of life and love and liberty, lying dead in a morgue and it is his fault.

'I can't bear it Combeferre. I…'

 _I know you can't. None of us can._

'Go to bed. I'll see you in the morning.'

The darkness swallows his words, muffling the creak of the mattress as Courfeyrac rises; padding over like a cat to the pillow.

The graze of salt-stained lips against his cheek is the last thing he hears before the dreams return, bathed in blood and fire and there is nothing he can do but wait until the morning to be able to banish his demons.

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 _ **A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Questions, comments, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!**_

 ** _Much love and enjoy x_**


	4. To Stand Corrected

_**A/N: On the night of 5th June 1832, Enjolras is joined by another who is set about considering**_ _ **the principles of the revolution.**_

 _ **As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Victor Hugo's novel into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

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18\. Falling (Les Miserables)

' _Someday you will fall from something higher and I won't be able to help you'_

There are times where he wishes that he had heeded Combeferre's advice.

There have been times; many times in fact in the run up to the revolution, this glorious moment when everything they had worked for, everything they had wished for; had seemed impossible and he had felt as if he were falling.

Felt as if the world as he knew it was crumbling, cracking, the weight of his own expectation suddenly too much to bear.

The minutes after Gavroche had brought the news of General Lamarque's death had been such a moment. The silence, the perfect stillness shrouding the upper room of the Musain as all eyes turned to him, all attention snapped at once towards his orders had found him stumbling; searching for words, desperately trying to remember why these men; these fiercely passionate followers who had taken the very core of his revolution to their hearts and transformed it into its' shining ideal that would sweep away his country's pain were here at all.

And as soon as he stumbled, a hand had been there to hold him. A hand, a touch; the slight rise of eyebrows over wire-framed spectacles; an imperceptible nod that had prompted him back into the familiar rhythms of speech.

' _This is not '30 Enjolras, my friend. We have grown up since then, I hope. We have each other now.'_

The knowledge that Combeferre would be there, would always be there had been what had stirred him on he realises. The knowledge that his ideas were not concrete, that his views; despite how impressive they sounded in his own head, could be challenged, could be corrected and expanded had been what had brought him this far.

The knowledge that the tall, thin, dark haired medical student with the broken nose and eyes which could twinkle from laugh to scandalised frown in a mere moment, would be with him no matter what happened, no matter how their attempts at bringing their beloved, broken city back came to pass.

And suddenly he can hear himself again, his words distant, floating as if from a dream, another life; words that were pulling him forward, pulling him onward as he watches a blood red sun slowly ascend over the soft, grey sky.

He can only wonder what that sun will have seen when it sinks back towards the horizon.

' _Citizens, no matter what happens today; we will be making a revolution.'_

He only wishes that he could find that confidence, that courage now.

Find it and use it; because he needed it, his friends, the men who had joined them on their quest for freedom, needed it as much as they needed ammunition if they had even the slightest chance of being able to stand against the National Guard.

'Enjolras?'

He barely feels the weight of the hand to his shoulder but leans into the pressure all the same, a rush of grateful love for his oldest and closest friend flooding through every part of his body.

'Are you alright _Mon Ami_?'

The skin under the guide's eyes is smudged blue with exhausted concern, dust and grime smattering his high, fine features. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras can just make out the thin, white relic of a bayonet scar jagging down from Combeferre's left eyelid, the subtle tightening of his mouth as he waits for his reply.

'Quite', he manages after a moment's pause, unable to say anything else and yet knowing that it will not be enough to satisfy his oldest friend.

A slight rise in the guide's eyebrows, the dark eyes widening slightly behind his spectacles is enough to confirm his suspicions.

He knows his friend well enough to not question the unspoken anxieties he sees there and yet wishes he could bring himself to say something, anything that will soothe them as they stand shoulder to shoulder watching a world rising from its' sleep.

A world that in just few hours, they will, God willing, have liberated from the hands of those who have tried for so long to suffocate it into submission.

A world where all; man or woman, bourgeois' or gamin would be free, free to live their life as it was intended to be lived.

The very thought of that world makes his heart swell with hope.

Hope that one day, regardless of their efforts; the world that they have been fighting for, the world that his lieutenants have poured their hearts and souls and very lives into will become a reality.

As if sensing his excitement, he feels the guide's hand slowly reaches for his own and for a moment they stand in silence; each praying that they will not see the other fall.

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 _ **Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!**_

 _ **Much love and enjoy x**_


	5. Savage Antinous

_**A/N: Enjolras contemplates the murder of Le Cabuc.**_

 _ **As I am not male, French or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Victor Hugo's epic novel into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

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30\. Murder (Les Miserables)

' _You have one minute. Pray or ponder.'_

His hands are shaking.

Even wrapped around the icy firmness of the carbine, he can still feel the tremors running up and down his fingers as his eyes flicker to his watch; determinedly not trying to focus on Cabuc.

At his feet, the murder gazes up at him; grey-green eyes filled with an almost mocking sense of pity as he takes in the dishevelled youth standing over him.

' _You will not kill me, boy,'_ the eyes seemed to say as the seconds tick on and he waits, feeling the weight of his actions, of all the actions that have brought him to this moment pulling down on him, on them; these men, this band of brothers whom he knows, deep down will not survive.

The weight of the carbine shivers slightly as he feels himself swallow, drawing himself up to his full height as he does so.

' _You do not have the stomach for this, boy!'_

The blood already on his hands tells him otherwise.

The blood, the sweat, the hopes and lives and dreams that have built this barricade and so many like it all over Paris, tells him otherwise.

The fact that his friends, his lieutenants, his broken band of brothers who have seen so many of their own fall in the name of liberty are still with him, still standing beside him tells him otherwise.

The fact that an innocent citizen, one who had had nothing to do with their revolution and yet was the epitome of what they were fighting for, had been murdered tells him otherwise.

Green-grey eyes glare up at him as he reaches to undo the safety catch.

Above him, the sky is a grey blanket shrouding the city, a blanket that in just a few hours will be flooded scarlet with the sacrifice of so many.

'Enjolras?'

He had not heard Courfeyrac approach; cannot bring himself to turn to the lawyer, to let his guard down; even for an instant.

The centre's face is hard with distaste as he looks down at the silent, staring prisoner, his lip curling with sudden, inexplicable loathing for the creature that kneels before them. Even looking at Courfeyrac out of the corner of his eye, the expression is so hard, so utterly alien to the centre's usual joviality; that Enjolras has to swallow back a reproach that he knows cannot be said.

'Do what you must,' he hears Courfeyrac murmur; a hard, calloused hand resting for a moment on his shoulder, the weight feeling oddly comforting as he leans into it, forever grateful for the centre's presence.

Below him, the crowd waits, their breaths suddenly feeling far too thick and loud in the silence.

Even the city is quiet now; the streets feeling as if they are the auditorium hushed for the final curtain of a performance; a performance that he suddenly wishes that he did not have to undertake and yet knows that he must.

Knows that justice; however terrible, must be served in all its' forms if they have any hope of bringing the sense of liberty that the city; that his beloved, broken Patria has cried out for for so long.

On the fringes of the group, he can just make out Combeferre standing shoulder to shoulder with Jean Prouvaire. Their faces are set, their expressions guarded with the knowledge of what the next few minutes may bring, how their actions, his actions, may influence whether this ragged band of brothers may be able to get out this alive.

The seconds tick on, the grey-green eyes that he has come to loathe glaring at him through their mask of bruising.

' _You do not have the stomach for this, do you, boy?'_

He must end this.

He must end this because the revolution cannot be remembered like this; his legacy, their legacy cannot be bathed in the blood of an innocent whose killer walks free.

The carbine shivers slightly as he raises his arm to fire, the weapon suddenly icy in his grip as he takes his aim.

He hardly hears the final shot.

Hardly sees the body crumple to the ground, the deadly accuracy of the bullet lodged within his heart; sending the sickening scarlet life blood seeping over the cobbles at his feet.

Above him, the sky has begun to bleed and the new day, the new dawn that they have longed for, finally begins to rise.

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 _ **A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!**_

 _ **Much love and enjoy x**_


	6. Memories of the Past

_**A/N: Combeferre survives the barricade of June 1832, but at a price that he is unwilling to pay.**_

 _ **A/N: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Victor Hugo's epic novel into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

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82\. Memories (Les Miserables)

When he comes to, he has no memories.

He has words, but does not understand where he got them from for his brain remains as blank as a new sheet of parchment; ready to be scrawled across with thin, black ink.

After a while, although he doesn't know how long a while is, he finds that he has movement too.

It's a fluid movement, no jerky as he'd feared; or thought that he'd feared, because he does not even know what fear is any more; but a movement performed with the regular ease of someone who has had control of a body for years.

But movement and words do not compensate for his lack of knowledge.

It is knowledge he craves; craves like food; a desperate, yearning hunger erupting in the pit of his stomach and cries for nourishment that he does not know how to supply.

He has no name for himself he realises.

He has no name for himself, nor does he know where he is; locked away in a flickering half darkness that stinks of sweat and urine and something…

Something rotten…

'Awake, are you?'

The words, laced with contempt, make him flinch.

The voice stirs something in him, something gripping his heart in the tight-fisted embrace of an old friend, something that he feels he has seen, lost within the darkness of another life.

Defiance.

It's a feeling that had once engulfed him as he stood gazing out at a city whose name he now had no memory of, a rubble of buildings glowing in a the blood red dawn.

It's a feeling that he had felt even after all was lost and an unknown creeping creature threatened to lay waste to all that he had fought for.

It's a feeling that greets him as an old friend, one that flares and ripples and lets him breathe for a moment that he hadn't known existed.

The darkness around his eyes is fading; but even as he tries to blink away the remnants of the fog that clouds the remnants of his vision; it still refuses to abate completely.

Your glasses were taken from you when you were recovered from the barricade.'

The voice, because it is just that; a voice slipping and sliding through his conscious as he struggles to regain his vision tells him; the words blank of all emotion.

 _Barricade._

His brain latches onto the word like a drowning man clutching at a scrap of driftwood, fingers scrabbling to gain a better grip.

 _Barricade._

An image flickers through him; the image of a fortress rising up to meet a tattered scrap of indistinguishably coloured cloth; burnt and broken and yet, despite everything, still flying.

The image of a shadow leaning out of the darkness, the weight of a body slumped against his own, the sudden shock of pain piercing his windpipe.

'You are a rebel. A traitor in the eyes of the King; His Most Righteous Majesty King Louis Philippe of France.'

The same non-existent voice is caught with something that he can't place.

'Once you are deemed fit, you will be tried and executed for High Treason.'

The words wash over him; the meanings that they must have had once now meaningless to his strange, blank mind.

He wishes that he could understand them fully.

He wishes he could, because somewhere in the darkness, he can feel the old feelings returning; the old hopes, the old dreams that had consumed him for so long that have, with the blink of an eye being swept from under him; creeping up upon him.

 _Was it really worth coming back if all he is going to do is die at the hands of the firing squad?_

 _Better to have died the first time!_

 _Better to have died and known that his death would have meant something, then to die condemned for an act that he cannot remember!_

'You will be brought out at dawn', the voice says again, but he hardly hears it.

In the silence he feels his lips move, cracked skin scraping over itself to form words that he doesn't know he has.

The words themselves mean nothing to him, but it is the memories that they conjure which matter.

It is the memory of a pale faced man with ice blue eyes rippling with concern; a mask of cold composure slipping dangerously in the silence.

It is the memory of a band of brothers; glowing in the promise of their potential, bathed in the light of a new dawn that is rising like a phoenix from the ashes of a broken, bleeding city.

It is the memory of the sharp shock of a bayonet, an anguished scream rippling through the darkness.

' _Forgive them. Forgive me. Please.'_

* * *

 _ **A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!**_

 _ **Much love and enjoy x**_


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